


A Winter's Home

by Silphanis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Snow is a Stark, King Stannis Baratheon, Legitimized Jon, POV Jon Snow, POV Multiple, Politics, Slow Burn, The North (ASOIAF), Wildling Culture & Customs, not romance focused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silphanis/pseuds/Silphanis
Summary: Unrest grows in the wildling settlements to the north.A bloody riot brings Warden of the North Jon Stark to Castle Black to settle matters before the situation gets worse.Here, Jon must contend with wildlings as well as northerners in the icy arena of The Gift, if he's to keep the peace - and his head.
Relationships: Alys Karstark/Jon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31
Collections: Discord Community Archive





	1. A Black Seal

## Prologue

The line stretched down the whole of the small road and then some. Haggard men and women— each more downtrodden than the next—tripped as they slumped forward through the snow, faces hollow as their stomachs. On both sides of the line stood Thenn warriors, silent, sullen, and armed to the teeth. Askir had seen them become a constant presence, ensuring that no one stepped out of line, paid generously for their services by the northern lords.

He stood behind a woman and her child, no more than some three years of age, though that would be a generous way of describing his desperate effort to remain upright. The wind tore through his woolen garments with a ferocity he hadn’t imagined the south could hold. In the lands beyond the wall, cold had been a mere fact of life. But here, now, it felt like an attack, a cruel siege on the spirit. One could hardly imagine it otherwise, after years of assault. His eyes followed the line of people to its front, where Sigorn Thenn stood, his harsh eyes watching the rations as they were handed from the cart. He was a man who took his role seriously, and looked ready to acquaint anyone who would challenge him with his sword.

Askir rubbed his thin, frozen hands together, trying desperately to find some warmth. He was young yet, though after all that the world had brought his people, he felt the weight of years beyond him. As he hugged himself tight against the wind, his attention was caught by the crunching of snow at his side, where his gaze found the unmistakable form of Byorn Last-Axe, accompanied by two of his clansmen. Each of the men walked with a determination he thought had been snuffed out of every one of the Free Folk. Just as they passed him, he looked down the way they came to see still more men following behind, armed for battle. Through the moans and mutterings of the crowd, he heard the subtle sounds of weapons being loosened from their sheathes. A wave of wind sent a violent shiver down his spine. There were not many things he was certain of, but among them was this: Byorn was not a man to be taken lightly.

The small company’s march continued up past the line and ended close by the cart, where the men turned to face the crowd. More and more faces looked up at them with interest, and it wasn’t long before the street was dead quiet, save for the sound of the gloved hands of Thenns clutching their weapons tight. Askir suspected he could cut through the air if he tried. His eyes shifted from Byorn’s men to the Thenns as he barely dared breathe. The silence was broken. From a small path leading between two small buildings and into the street came a cacophony of snow creaking beneath something heavy, followed by muffled sounds of protest. Soon after, the enraptured crowd saw a shape being dragged between two men from Byorn’s clan. As he got closer, Askir saw that it was an older man with a battered face and an empty look in his eyes, pushing the snow in front of him as he was pulled further along. He strained to keep his head bent back, keeping the worst of the snow and ice away from his face, though no other part of him was spared. Just as the men holding him turned to the ration cart, where Byorn stood, two Thenns moved towards them, axes drawn.

“Put him down,” one barked in a rough, gravelly tone.

They obliged, letting the man fall flat beneath them. He groaned as his face was buried in the snow, then pushed himself up with what seemed like considerable effort. Askir followed his terrified eyes to Byorn, now moving towards the man, a self-assured smile gracing his lips. He took slow steps, his boots leaving deep marks in the soft snow, then stopped, just a few feet from the man. He turned towards the crowd, and Askir saw the Thenns clutch their weapons tighter.

Byorn cleared his throat subtly, then spoke with a booming voice that filled the street instantly. “Brothers. Sisters,” he began. His eyes scanned the crowd, passing a mass of enraptured faces. He briefly relaxed into a satisfied smirk, before turning deadly serious. “Earlier today, the man lying next to me broke into a house close by. The house of Smylla and Karl.”

A heat rose in Askir. He did not care should someone steal from the fortunate to survive, but he had no love for those who made things of their own kin. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman standing next to him clenching her fist. Someone she knew, he guessed.

After letting his last statement linger, Byorn continued. “He took what little food they had, and left them to starve in the cold.” The crowd jeered and hissed, and he nodded at them quietly. He wasn’t smiling now. “But we are not here to punish him. I’ve seen many men like him. Men who have had to steal, and cheat, and kill to stay alive. People like him are a mark of sickness, yes. But the sickness is standing all around you.” 

The eyes of the crowd darted to the guards, slowly raising their weapons.

“We must realise that the lords of our new lands do not care for us! And the Thenns and Hornfoots who they have made their loyal dogs are no better. Do these men look hungry to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “While you starve, the lords and their servants feast. And so much as cast a wrong look, they beat us. We won’t be held down any longer!”

The Thenns had heard enough. The two men behind Byorn marched briskly towards him, and still more men closed on where he stood, moving from their places along the line. The crowd fumed, nearly melting the snow they stood on. One of the Thenns growled something at Byorn, but Askir couldn’t make it out for the commotion that was starting. The men closest to the crowd flashed their weapons, warning them to stand back, but they grew angrier still.

One of the Thenns placed himself directly in front of Askir, clutching a steel bastard sword. He strained to look past the man, where he found Byorn again. The Thenns behind him had taken hold of his arms and were dragging him violently back as he struggled to free himself. Askir watched one of Byorn’s warriors as he leapt towards the men, skidding slightly as he landed in the snow. The guard closest to the warrior only managed to turn his head before his axe was planted in his face with a sickening crack. Time slowed to a crawl. The guard fell backwards, growling in pain like a wounded animal, then landed in the white, dead. 

For a moment, the commotion came to a stop, as all eyes turned to the scene. The other man holding Byorn let go and cast a look at the body of his fallen ally. For a second, he locked eyes with the attacker, then drew his blade and charged. 

The clansman raised his axe to swing again, when the guard’s sword was thrust into his chest with staggering force. He let out a moaning noise that barely sounded human, then dropped his axe and slumped over dead on the blade. The guard pushed his body back, and watched with clenched teeth as it struck the ground. 

Seconds after, the sound of stomping feet and maddened shouts filled the street, and he turned to find himself faced by an encroaching mass of furious people. Askir watched the guard stumble backwards, clutching his sword, before his entire view was flooded by the frenzied mob. Then the screams began. 

He swung his head back and forth, seeing body after body land in the snow. Men and women cut down like animals. A chaos of people. A chaos of red. And a chaos of screams, ghastly and horrid ones, that threatened to rip the ears of the very gods. He wanted to help, but who, and where? His legs seemed to move on their own as he ran through the crowd and away from the carnage. Every step, the snow threatened to slip him up, but by luck, instinct, or some divine intervention, he kept upright until he was clear of the mob. To his left, close to the houses by the road’s edge, a beat-up, shambling Byorn was making his own run for it. Askir had heard him described as a brutish and capricious man, but today, he had seen a different side of the Last-Axe. As Askir collected himself, he saw a figure approaching the tired man. A figure he swiftly identified as Sigorn Thenn.

Sigorn drew his bronze sword, holding it to the side as he marched closer. Askir couldn’t let it happen. He saw a thousand scenes play before his eyes. He saw white faces and swords and snow. He saw Byorn holding his shoulder as he breathed his last breath. He saw his own eyes stare back at him, lifeless. He pulled his dirk. There was only one future he cared to see now.

It took only seconds to reach the Magnar, with his bronze-laden leather armor and heavy blade weighing him down. Before any hesitation reared its head, he jabbed the dirk through an opening in Sigorn’s armor and felt a hard _thunk_ as his hands slammed into the leather. Sigorn growled and threw an arm back at him, but Askir managed to steer clear and pull the dagger out as he took a wavering step back. Sigorn turned to him with fire in his eyes and swung his sword hard into his arm. He screamed as it pierced his flesh, and he felt bone crack inside him. He didn’t look at the blood, but he could feel it streaming down his arm. Sigorn raised his sword to strike again. With some power he had not known he held, Askir sprung towards him and plunged his knife into his throat. Sigorn looked shocked for a moment, before his face turned to pain. He opened his mouth to scream, but only blood came out, flowing down his face and unto his chin. One drop managed to reach the snow before the Magnar of Thenn fell sideways to the ground. His lifeblood painted the white ground.

Askir cast his first look on his mangled arm and knew he was little more than a body, waiting to join the others. A walking corpse, if he was even walking anymore. His consciousness started to fade, when he felt a blade enter him, then more. 

He thought of his mother. Then red. Then white. Then nothing.

* * *

## Chapter 1 - A Black Seal

Jon had made his way into the Godswood early that morning. It had become a personal custom for him, after the war. He spent many hours there, pacing among the trees, sitting by the lake, and gazing at the weirwood that stood like a spire of light at its center. 

From here, one could be forgiven for thinking the wood went on forever. The dense canopy betrayed little of what lay outside it, leaving it a world of its own. There was a peace here that one only truly appreciated as respite from a world firmly in the grasp of time, unceasing, uncaring. He often thought of his father in this place. It had been where he, too, retreated from everything when the need arose. It was said the dead watched through the weirwoods. Would he be proud?

Peace had fallen over the realm, or something as near as made no matter. Yet there was no peace to be found in Jon's mind. He had awoken from dreams of the heart tree aflame, seeing the smoke rise above Winterfell as a warning to all that the gods had been abandoned. He had seen the fire, clear as any waking moment. But the tree was still there when he reached the grove. Sometimes dreams were nothing more.

Jon slipped off his glove and reached out to touch the white bark. There was a noise behind him. He stopped. Turning around, he found Sansa, her fiery locks glistening with Winter’s white and dancing around her shoulders as she made her way through the snow.

“Two letters arrived from Castle Black this morning,” she said, walking over to where he stood. “For the Warden.”

He took the letters from her hand. One carried the silver seal of House Cerwyn, addressed to Lord Stark, and the other was sealed with plain black wax. _Jon_ , it said. It looked to have been scribbled in a hurry. With his uncovered hand, he cracked the Cerwyn seal and rolled out the parchment. He furrowed his brow as he read, then rolled up the parchment again.

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

“It’s from Garrick Cerwyn,” he said. “Trouble in The Gift.”

She sighed. “One could hardly expect otherwise.”

He didn’t answer, fixated on the second letter. _Jon._ He gently broke the seal.

_A riot has taken place in Mole’s Town. My husband is dead, along with a score of wildlings. I am confined to my chambers for my safety, but I doubt that is the true reason. Alden Umber and his allies have long been increasing their presence in the settlements, and I fear he will use this excuse to its fullest. I do not know his goals, but the people are suffering, and my words have little weight to the council with my husband gone. I beg of you, as our Warden, come to Castle Black and help me prevent further violence. I fear the worst if nothing is done._

_\- Alys_

He stared blankly at the page, the cold forgotten. It had been a long time since that name had passed his eyes. He clutched the parchment tighter, then sighed, watching the breath rise in the cold. Sansa watched him with quizzical eyes.

Jon looked up, meeting her gaze. “I’m going to go there.”

“To Castle Black?”

He nodded. “This news troubles me. There is need for me there.”

“And what of Winterfell?” she asked.

He gave her a half-smile. “It has you, does it not?”

An odd look appeared on her face. She turned her head to the side, looking towards the Great Keep.

“I won’t be forever,” he said. “But I knew when I took this role that I could not spend all my days at Winterfell.”

She nodded. “You had best get to your preparations,” she curtly said, then began her journey out of the Godswood.

He stood watching the heart tree a while after, then followed in his sister’s footsteps. When he reached the courtyard, he was flanked on both sides by workers, scuttling back and forth to keep the castle running. He still found new odd looks every time he made the journey. He ran a gloved hand through his scraggly beard and brushed out the crystals of snow that had made a home there.

His eyes wandered and found the Great Keep. It was an ancient place, many a time restored, and stretched further into the sky than any other part of Winterfell. Jon had seen several castles more impressive in size, but it could still inspire in him an awe that none of them had yet managed. He followed the granite structure to its top, where he found the sun rather higher than he had imagined. Evidently, time passed differently while he was deep in thought.

He strode through the courtyard to the door. It let out a harsh creak when he pushed it open and went inside. His footsteps against the stony floors echoed through the keep as he paced through its halls, determination leading him on his narrow way. When he reached his study, he heard a rustling from inside. He slowly opened the door to find Ollin, one of the servant boys of the castle, tidying up a mess of books on a shelf by the room’s edge.

“Lord Stark!” he exclaimed, turning away from his ambitious project. “I didn’t expect you here today.”

Jon was already moving towards the writing desk as he spoke. “I need to send word about a journey I will be going on.”

“Would it disturb my lord if I continued my work?” Ollin asked sheepishly.

Jon pondered it for a moment. “I would like you to do something for me instead.” 

Ollin stood upright like a guard under inspection. “Of course, my lord,” he said, with a great degree of diligence.

Jon resisted the urge to chuckle at the boy’s antics. “I need you to call Lord Cerwyn here, I should want to speak with him.”

The boy did a quick bow and scuttled out of the room, as if bitten by a bug. 

Jon sat down at the desk and dug through the mess to find two pieces of parchment. He laid them out in front of him and began to write. The words came easily, carried by the resolve that filled him, and by the time he heard the expected knock on the door, he was putting the Stark seal on his letters. They needed only their ravens now. 

He rose from his seat and strode towards the door, opening it to find Rodney Cerwyn. A handsome man, a good few years Jon’s senior, ever with a sword by his side. Men of the old gods could not be knights, yet he was as close to a storybook example as Jon had ever known.

Rodney stood at attention, a soldier at heart. “My lord. You wanted to see me?”

Jon nodded and moved past him into the hall. “Walk with me,” he said.

The two men made their way slowly away from the study and towards the bridge connecting the keep to the armory.

"What do you need from me?" Rodney asked.

Jon stood with his hands behind his back, looking down at the courtyard below through the wide windows of the bridge. “I will be headed for The Gift on the morrow,” he said, gesturing for Rodney to come closer. “I will need a company for the journey. I would like you to join me.”

Rodney nodded. “Of course. The strength of House Cerwyn stands behind you.”

Jon sensed a ‘but’ coming.

“I must ask though, what is in The Gift that requires the Warden’s attention?”

Jon sighed. “Sigorn Thenn is dead,” he said, matter-of-factly. “His wife, Alys Karstark, has called for my aid.”

Rodney turned his head. “What happened?”

“A riot. It’s not surprising, given recent days.”

“And how many dead?”

“Too many,” Jon said, his tone cold as ice.

Rodney sighed. “Always,” he said, “but is this not a matter for the council?”

Jon looked thoughtfully out the window. “It is indeed. The council whose head is one Alden Umber.” 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever met him,” Rodney said.

Jon had only met the man twice. Once at Winterfell, once on a visit to his older brother Lucan, the head of their house.

He spoke. “He would sooner see the wildlings dead than settled in peace. He will use this to his advantage.”

Rodney stifled a chuckle. “I don’t believe King Stannis would approve of that.”

“And my bannermen wouldn’t approve of me deposing him,” Jon said.

“I see the issue,” came Rodney’s muttered reply.

Jon nodded sullenly. His eyes wandered across the courtyard and stopped by the side of the Library Tower. Sitting against the wall was Arya, quickly joined by the white shape of Ghost, having retrieved a stick from the middle of the square. She looked up towards the window, as if sensing him, and the two made eye contact. She gave him a wide smile and rose to her feet, beginning a journey across the courtyard and towards the keep.

“My company departs at daybreak,” Jon said.

Rodney grabbed his sword, seemingly by instinct. “Twenty Cerwyn men are at your disposal, my lord. And I will see to provisioning.”

“Very well,” Jon said, turning from the window and moving back towards the keep proper. “It will be good to have you by my side. I can’t imagine we will be popular company for Lord Umber.” The thought brought the slightest of smiles to his lips.

Rodney followed him as the two walked in unison away from the bridge, then stopped as they saw Arya rushing up a flight of stairs to their right. 

She took a few heavy breaths. “I- I- I didn’t see you return from the Godswood,” she said through haggard breaths. 

“I had not planned to stay forever,” Jon replied, bemused.

She looked as though she were about to say something, but stopped herself. He suspected he knew what it had been.

“Why are you two talking?” she said instead.

“Does talking need an occasion?” Jon asked.

Arya squinted. “You’re doing something,” she declared.

Jon sighed. “I’m leaving Winterfell.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Where are you going?”

“The Gift. And only for a time,” he said.

“Well, I’m coming with you!” she exclaimed.

He shook his head. “It’s not a safe place. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.”

“I don’t need your protection. I can handle myself.” She grabbed Needle by her side and pulled it a few inches up from its sheath.

“I don’t doubt it,” Jon said. “But all the same. Sansa will be overseeing Winterfell in my absence, you ought to stay here with her.”

She looked towards Rodney with the closest thing to pleading eyes she could muster. 

He cleared his throat and Jon turned towards him. “If the lady wishes, I can see to it that she stays safe.”

The two often trained together, so much so that Jon at times suspected he was as much of a brother to her as him. He didn’t doubt the sincerity of his advisor, but his mind was unchanged.

“No,” Jon said. “I trust you with my life and my family’s alike, but this trip could be a dangerous affair. I can't allow it.” He turned back to his sister. “You would perhaps do well with some quiet, for a time.”

She gave him a look equal in scorn and study. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

He cast a gaze at the empty air, electing not to reply. “I will return as soon as matters are resolved. We leave at daybreak, should you wish to see us off.” He flashed her a soft smile. “I would appreciate seeing you before I go.”

She tried returning the smile, but even Jon wasn’t convinced. A melancholy quiet came over them before Jon moved to leave, dismissing Rodney with a nod. He left Arya where she stood and headed with heavy steps across the bridge. Even with his back turned, he could feel her eyes boring into him as he walked away.

Jon spent the rest of the day on preparations. A journey like this could not be taken lightly, in the Winter especially. A disquiet followed him as he nearly ran around Winterfell to put things in order. When the day was waning, there was only one thing left to take care of.

The armory was not a place many came alone, but Jon knew that his company would be preparing there early on the morrow, and he would rather ready himself on his own. He enjoyed the quiet, broken only by the whetting of his blade and the Winter wind beating on the window. His eyes occasionally wandered from his work to look out over the rows of weapons against the wall. The craftsmanship made them quite an appealing sight, despite the brutality they implied. He was about to start whetting again when the door swung open, startling him.

In the doorway was Sansa, clad in a plain grey dress. She had changed from earlier. Was it that late already? She looked at him with the suggestion of a smile.

“I thought I might find you here."

He put Longclaw down beside him and folded his hands in his lap. “You thought correctly. Did you want something in particular?”

“Only to talk to my brother before he departs.” she said.

He smiled. She had said it in the slightly conniving way she had perfected. It still felt like a shared performance between the two, but he appreciated it nonetheless. 

“I don’t leave until tomorrow,” he said.

She took a few steps closer, resting against an empty shelf to the side of the room. “Everyone will be there then. Not much room for conversation.”

 _Not everyone_ , he was tempted to say, but held his tongue. “I suppose this is as good a time as any,” were his words instead. “I trust you fully with handling my affairs here in my absence, of course.”

She waved a hand in his direction. “I’m not here to talk politics. Too much of that will drive the sanest man mad.”

Jon rose from his seat and placed himself on the wall opposite hers. “Then what did you want to talk about?”

“It’s a big task you’re undertaking,” she said.

“It’s the task I must take,” came the curt reply.

She cocked her head to the side. “Many lords would send someone in their stead. Especially in a Winter as hard as ours.”

“Father wouldn’t,” he said, noticing the slightest of whinces crossing her face. _Old habits die hard_ , he thought _._

She nodded. “He would be proud."

 _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_. That was their guiding star when years like this came. “Besides,” he said, “Lord Umber won’t pass up the opportunity for power this provides. And Lady Karstark will need an ally.”

“Rodney informed me. It’s a dreadful thing, what’s befallen her,” Sansa said. “She’ll be happy to see a friend, I’ve no doubt.”

Jon made a small noise. “I will be there as the Warden of the North,” he said, “not as anyone’s friend.” The thought of seeing her again didn’t seem to him entirely unpleasant, though.

She looked at him, curiosity showing in her eyes, but remained quiet.

“Arya wanted to join me,” Jon said after a while.

“She told me as much,” Sansa replied. “But I agree with your decision.”

He turned his gaze from her to the window. “I only hope she forgives me.”

Sansa let out a bemused scoff. “Of course she will. And there’s plenty to do at Winterfell, anyhow.”

“Still hoping to make a little lady out of her?” he asked.

“Against hope, as always.”

The two shared a laugh. After a bout of silence, she rose to her full height and began moving towards the door.

“I had better be off,” she said, then turned her head to look at him. “Do promise me you’ll get some sleep.”

“I’m almost finished here,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“You'll need your strength. As we all do.” And with those words, she headed out the door.

With a sigh, Jon returned to his bench and took Longclaw in his hands. He studied the wolf’s head at the hilt as the wind continued to howl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading the first part of this new story of mine. I've been working on it for quite a while, but I've decided I have enough outlining done and a bit of a backlog that I'm comfortable publishing.
> 
> The story centers around Jon, but other characters will have a role to play, and a few will have POV chapters. There's not a set amount of chapters, but we'll be here a while.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first part and follow me on the journey. Comments make my day, if there's anything you want to say.
> 
> Until next time.
> 
> \- Silphanis


	2. The Road North

The morning was near as cold as the night whose place it had taken.

Rodney patted his horse with his brown leather glove, looking out over the company that was forming in the courtyard. A score of soldiers under the Cerwyn banner, that and then some were Stark men. There looked to be about fifty in the main party, as well as a few civilians off to the sides of the group. Washerwomen, singers and the like.

He was surprised that anyone not duty bound would travel with them, but always there were some. So many never left their villages, so the promise of adventure was always a powerful one. The promise of winter’s biting cold less so.

He spied one of the washerwomen casting a glance at him, then swiftly turning away. He worried for even his veterans, the civilians were less prepared still. And they had a long journey ahead of them. He let out a sigh, watching it rise up into the air and disappear towards the towers of Winterfell.

To his side, he heard a horse neighing and turned to see the figure leading it. A woman about his age, brown hair bound in a ponytail that he recognized as Lady Darla Ashwood. The cold didn’t seem to bother her, though she was wearing thinner clothing than him. Rodney was told she had fought with Lord Stark during The Long Night and been given a place at his side for her efforts. He knew she had quarters in Winterfell, but he rarely saw her there. A frequent envoy, he suspected.

“Gods take this weather, eh?” she exclaimed, loud enough to best the wind.

Rodney was startled for a moment. He had not been expecting conversation until the lord arrived. “It’s a sorry affair,” he said.

She caressed her horse, then turned to him again. “Lord Stark wanted me to inform you he will be arriving soon.”

“He said daybreak yesterday,” Rodney said. “Has something changed?”

“No, a small matter came up,” she replied. “Or perhaps he overslept and was too embarrassed to say,” she added.

Rodney frowned. “I doubt it, especially not on a day like this.”

There was a brief quiet, followed by a soft chuckle, over before it had begun. “You’re not much for humor, Lord Cerwyn,” the lady said, matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps not,” he simply said.

The two watched as the men scuttled about, making their final preparations. In the windows of the buildings enclosing the courtyard, Winterfell’s inhabitants were looking down at the company, and in doorways all around, children were staring in awe.

Rodney lived for those moments. When you knew the realities of the world lords and soldiers inhabited, it hardly seemed romantic, but in the eyes of the common folk, he saw the same admiration he himself had felt as a child. It was almost hard not to buy into it himself. In the corner of his eye, he saw the small figure of a common boy coming close, and turned his attention to him. The boy seemed to realize he’d been noticed and rushed over to Rodney’s horse.

“There are so many of you! Are you going to war?” the boy asked.

Rodney smiled, casting a glance at Darla, who was watching the exchange. “Thankfully not,” he said.

“Are you going north to kill wildlings?” The boy sounded far too enthused by the prospect.

In truth, they always went to kill. “No,” he replied. “We’re going to keep the peace. A good soldier knows the time for peace, just as well as war.”

The boy looked thoughtful for a moment, then returned to his previous glee. “You have Winterfell with you, M’lord!” he exclaimed.

“Glad to hear it,” Rodney said with a smile. He placed a gloved hand on the boy’s messy head of hair and tousled it.

“Hey!” The boy fought off his hand and straightened his hair. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he raised a saluting fist in the air, which Rodney mirrored, then ran along back into the crowd.

“It’s a wonderful thing,” Darla said.

Rodney nodded, and was about to answer when he heard the crunching of snow to his left. He turned his head to see Jon approaching.

“Lord Stark,” he called. “Good to see you.”

“You as well,” Jon said, guiding his tall, brown horse to between the two already there. He gave a nod to Darla and received one in return. “Are the men ready?” he asked him in a curt tone.

Rodney eyed him with eyebrows raised. “I believe so, my lord. Shall we depart?”

“I see no reason to stay any longer.”

There seemed to be something on the young lord’s mind, but Rodney thought better than to inquire. He looked to Darla, but her mind was likewise elsewhere. He shouted for the company to ride and the air of the courtyard was filled with the rustling of metal and leather as they obliged. They took the first steps towards the kingsroad.

Each morning on the journey seemed more cold and bitter than the last. This one was no exception. Rodney sat by the small river where they had halted the day prior, gazing into the horizon. He could just begin to see Queenscrown in the distance, even through the fog that the company had woken up to.

Rodney took a bite of his bread, taking in all of the sounds around him. The water rushed along the stones, birds chirped, and down the river bank, a group of Cerwyn men were talking quietly among themselves. He listened in on their mutterings, catching little. His ears perked up when the word “hunt” appeared in their conversation though, and he swiftly rose from where he sat and walked over to join them.

“What’s this about a hunt?” he said, startling the group.

One of the men spun his head up at him. “Lord Cerwyn!” he said, surprised. “Uh, the weaker horses are taking the morning to rest. Some of us are thinking of going on a hunt in the forest. We tire of our rations, and we plan to feast on fresh game tonight.”

Rodney turned his head towards the wood, a small and dense area they had nearly reached the day before. He looked back at the men. “I should like to join you. Let us depart once the others have broken their fast.”

“Of course, my lord. You’re welcome to ride with us.”

He nodded acknowledgingly towards the man, then turned on his heel and moved towards the wagons. _A good hunt should do us well_ , he thought _._

Rodney cast an eye at the wagon closest to the river. Its exterior was decorated with Stark banners, though the men serving both houses shared well. He had found there was a camaraderie among soldiers, even ones of disparate origin and purpose, that the world of nobles could scarce dream of. _There are no islands on a battlefield_ , his brother had often told him.

Against a wagon wheel, he found Darla Ashwood, sitting beside her horse. Her teeth were doing battle with a piece of stale bread she held in both hands. She didn’t seem to notice his presence.

“Lady Ashwood?”

She looked up at him, then chuckled. “Lady? Please. Not many ladies carrying one of these,” she said and clapped the crossbow that lay next to her. “Call me Darla.”

“Apologies, Darla. Me and a few of my men are going to spend the morning hunting. Perhaps you would privilege us with your company?”

“Oh, a lady could never,” she said with a smile.

“Shall I take that as a ‘yes’, then?”

Darla nodded. “I’ll come. Game must beat this, anyhow,” she said, holding up her half-chewed bread. “Here, I’ll never get it down.” She threw it to him.

“I’ve little use,” Rodney said, amused. He walked over to her horse and offered the bread to it in an open palm, which it swiftly licked clean. With a grimace, he wiped his hand on the sleeve of his other arm. “We’re departing soon, ready yourself,” he finished, in the most serious tone he could muster, though her smile made it clear as day that that particular spell was broken.

The group consisted of eight men, Rodney and four from his company, and three Stark men that had caught wind of the trip, Darla being among them. They were in good spirits after their breakfast, dull as it had been, and well supplied with water, though the trip did not look like it would be a long one.

Deron, one of Rodney's troops, was the biggest of them, and had been made responsible for carrying most of their supplies in a large pack. They set off on foot towards the forest, armed with bows and crossbows, as well as the shortswords by their side, though little luck would come of them when hunting game.

Rodney had equipped himself with a longbow, though of its use he knew little, even after many a hunt’s attempt. Crossbows had come easier to him, but his sword was yet his most trusted companion in battle.

Their surroundings got darker the second they passed the line separating the wood from the field by the Kingsroad, and the dense foliage above covered the party in shadow as they made their way inside. Only sparse streaks of light shone through the leaves, illuminating small parts of the path ahead and reflecting off bits of rock to dance on the bark of nearby trees.

Rodney’s eyes darted from side to side, peering in through tree clusters to catch a glimpse of wildlife. Considering the sparsely vegetated land around the wood, there would likely be many animals considering the place a safe haven, and a good source of food. He imagined the trek from the forest to the river was one they made often, perhaps hindered today by the sizable host that had made camp there.

As the group entered a clearing, Rodney stepped on a branch, cringing as the sound echoed through the trees. There came a rustling close by, and he moved his eyes toward it in a second. Movement. He signalled for the others to stop, then pointed towards where he had heard the noise. Quietly, they approached. Next to Rodney, Darla raised her crossbow, clutching it tighter.

Then the scream came.

Rodney looked left and saw it. A man - one of his - fell to the ground with an arrow poking out of the side of his back. Turning on his heel, he saw three human figures charging towards them. He threw the bow into the mass of trees and drew his sword. To his side, he heard Darla loosen a bolt, then begin to ready another, cursing. Casting a glance back, he saw a group of four ragged men coming from behind. _Ambush_. As they moved closer, axes and blades at the ready, he saw clearly now that they were wildlings, the lot of them. He heard Darla’s bolt click into place.

The men from the company moved backwards, away from the charging wildlings. Before long, they formed a crude circle, all facing outwards, poised to strike.

Rodney's eyes roamed past all the attackers, stopping suddenly as he saw an arrow pointed at Darla. Just as it flew towards her, he tackled her to the ground, leaving both of them prone. He heard a scream from behind him and got a sinking feeling. The arrow had found another target in Darla's stead.

He pushed himself to a crouching position, then jumped up. One of the wildlings charged him, axe drawn, and he steeled himself. Their weapons clashed, Rodney just managing to block the ferocious swing, then kicking the wildling's shin. He staggered backwards in furious pain and prepared to swing again. Rodney spotted another wildling coming from his left, carrying a rugged, chipped sword. In an instant, two weapons faced him down. He blocked the axe once more, feeling the staggering force of the swing vibrate through him, then drove his sword into the man in retaliation. But the blade came second, unhindered, heading towards him when-

The blade-wielding wildling stopped in his tracks, missing Rodney by a wide berth as he fell forwards to the ground. A bolt was lodged in his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney saw Darla, rising quickly to her feet with an empty crossbow in her hands.

"You're welcome," she said, fiddling with another bolt to ready a third shot.

The forest ahead of him clear, Rodney swung around on his heel, just in time to see Deron fall backwards with a harrowing scream. He rushed forward, but it was much too late. The man landed on the ground, joining two others who had fallen during the battle. Four wildlings remained, split in two pairs, both trying to pin the others down like they had Rodney. A man stood alone and Rodney rushed to help. He saw the wildlings look away for a moment, then stop their assault. Without a word, the group turned their heels and started running away.

Two of the men readied their crossbows to shoot after the fleeing wildlings.

“Let them run. We have our own to worry about,” Rodney said.

There was nothing left in the clearing but them, five standing, three lying on the ground, dead or dying. Their heavy breaths formed a haggard symphony, winding slowly down as their chests settled back into their usual rhythms. Rodney studied the bodies, feeling a sting hit him as reality set in. Men he had known and fought with since long before The Long Night, taken now by random brigands. A few of the others were down at ground level, listening for heartbeats, but it seemed a futile task. Beside the dead lay their weapons and-

The bag was gone. The wildlings hadn’t fled out of fear. They had gotten exactly what they wanted. He was about to point this out to the others when a harsh cough broke the stillness of the clearing. His eyes found the source immediately. Deron was still with them.

“Deron!” Rodney exclaimed. “Alright, get him back to camp. He’s got one chance!”

The order did not fall on deaf ears. The men sprung into action, gathering the last things, getting a last look at the other fallen, then began rushing back the way they came. Two of the Cerwyn men who remained carried Deron between them, and the rest carried the remaining supplies and weapons.

Rodney felt a fury rise in him at every roadblock they encountered. Precious wasted seconds. When they reached the end of the wood, it struck him how far away the camp now seemed. They hollered to the men standing there as they ran towards the river. A bustle began among them as they rushed around looking for medical supplies, and when they finally laid Deron down by the water, everyone was gathered around.

“Alright, give him space!” Rodney barked. “Back off, and those who can help, do it quickly!”

With a deep sigh, he stepped away from the situation, staring into the ground as he walked. He raised his gaze to look towards the forest where the others still lay, when his field of view was filled by a familiar figure.

“What happened in there?” Jon demanded.

Rodney met his eyes. “A gang of wildlings,” he said. “They killed Ebbert and Martyn and took our supplies.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Did they come from Queenscrown?”

“I don’t know,” Rodney said. “But where else?”

“The Free Folk in The Gift are our allies,” Jon said. “I was here at the start of the rebuilding efforts. Wildlings and the Night’s Watch working side by side. Why would they now be coming South to attack travellers?”

Rodney sighed. “If I could explain it, I would. But steel speaks louder than words.”

“They shouldn’t be lacking for much at Queenscrown.” Jon turned around and took a few steps in the direction of the wood. “Most of the supplies being sent around The Gift go through there, they’re not exactly starving.”

“All I know is that they ambushed us, then ran as soon as they had our supplies. I don’t think they cared much about killing any of us,” Rodney said. “Could it be related to the recent riot Lady Karstark mentioned?”

Jon looked back towards him. “If so, it’s a rather queer response. The riot was against the men responsible for rationing, why would they be attacking us for it?”

“I don’t imagine northerners are the most welcomed at the moment,” Rodney said. “But you’re right of course, it doesn’t quite follow.”

He stepped over to stand next to Jon, turning to see his face. The lord stared pensively into the horizon, saying nothing.

“Is something the matter, my lord?” Rodney asked.

“The dead. They’re still in the forest?”

Rodney nodded. “Yes, we rushed Deron back for treatment.”

“Get your men to bring them here. We don’t ride until they’ve had a proper funeral,” Jon declared.

“The ground is frozen, my lord, it would take days.”

“Shallow graves will do.”

With those words, he left Rodney alone and headed towards the tents. Rodney let out a deep sigh and turned back to the river. There was still a sizable crowd to be found there, but Deron seemed to be doing better, at a glance. Breathing, if nothing else. Rodney walked over to the outskirts of the crowd, where a small group of Cerwyn men stood, enraptured by the scene. After a few orders, Rodney cast long gazes at them as they headed north towards the wood.

A violent cough took hold of him, and he clutched his chest as he let it out. He looked down and found his hands spattered with a sickly red color. Down his body he noticed yet more, and recognized it as the blood of the wildling he had killed. _Some dress for a funeral_ , he thought. He followed in Jon’s footsteps towards the camp proper. The clothes in his tent ought to be more presentable.

When he emerged from the tent a while late, he was carrying a bundle of leather and wool in his hands. They still reeked, partly of blood, partly of sweat. It was fortunate in situations like these to have washerwomen travelling with the company. Rodney headed down the slope from the camp to the river, walking along it to a small group of the women who had gathered and were speaking amongst themselves while doing their work. One of them, a short, hazel-brown haired girl, noticed him walking towards them.

“Rodney Cerwyn?” she asked.

Rodney, accustomed to his title as lord, was surprised for a moment, then collected himself. “I come with a few of my clothes, stained in the forest,” he said. He didn’t feel like correcting her, especially when asking for a service.

“Just put it by the rock,” another of the women offered, pointing to a large, flat rock lying close by the river.

She was more curt than most people around Rodney. Not one often engaged with nobles, he suspected. With a nod, he complied with her offer.

“It’s surprising to see you here in person,” the first woman said, more composed than her earlier comment.

It was true, he hadn’t come himself with clothes on any of the other days, Still, it seemed oddly accusatory. “It was easiest,” he simply said, then walked away, seeing that the women had plenty on their plate as was. Yet something was left in the back of his mind as he headed back towards the camp.

A cold wind had been growing since their return, and Rodney found himself praying that all the tents were properly secured. He felt crystals of snow landing on his face and melting from the heat.

He saw two of the men he had ordered to get the bodies digging a little ways away from the camp. When he had ordered shovels to be brought with the supplies for the company, it had been at a whim. A rather morbid one, he realized in hindsight, but, as always, realistic. Quietly, he wondered if a third grave would become necessary before their departure.

Walking over to the diggers, he looked down to study their progress. Even with low aspirations, it seemed it was gonna take a while. He made notice of another gust of wind.

“You seem to be well at it,” Rodney said.

One of them looked up at him. “Yes, my lord. We want the graves to be… proper.”

Rodney made eye contact with him. He studied the man for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "Lord Stark feels the same, as do I."

Unconsciously, Rodney's mind began to wander to Queenscrown, and how it would take to get there. Yet more snow was beginning to cover the camp grounds with a slow, yet menacing pace.

As he contemplated, he sensed movement somewhere behind him and turned to look, where he found the washerwoman he had spoken to making her way towards one of the cargo wagons. The one she spent the nights in, he assumed. She went inside and began digging through the cargo, then retrieved a bag. With it in hand, she went outside again and snuck behind the wagon, where nobody could see her. Rodney furrowed his brow.

Endeavoring to be as quiet as a soldier of his size could manage, he followed behind her and turned the corner of the wagon. She had her back turned to him when he got there, digging into her now-open bag, then turned with a jolt towards him. His eyes widened.

Her nose looked odd and deformed, like a clay sculpture in the making, and her face seemed covered in peculiar paint, but there was no mistaking who was underneath it.

"Lady Stark!?" Rodney exclaimed.

Arya stared at him like a wounded animal would a predator, almost falling backwards into the snow. "I-" she began, but seemed to lose track of what she was going to say.

"But you looked- That wasn't you, I was talking to back there, was it?" he asked.

She swallowed. "Just a glamor, I'm good at-" She cut herself off. "Please don't tell Jon."

Rodney put his hand to his scalp, squeezing hard. "I can't follow all of this. But he has to know."

"He doesn't! I can handle myself. He'd be worried," she said. "And mad." Her voice got quiet.

"I don't know how you managed to come with us this far, but if you expect me to just let you continue posing as some washerwoman under his nose, then I-"

"Please?" She gave him a doe-eyed stare.

Rodney did his best to look unmoved, crossing his arms. "He will have to find out. You know that. Wouldn't you rather it be now?"

Arya looked down at the ground. "I-" She stopped again. "I'll tell him. Before Castle Black. Please offer me the time."

Rodney groaned. He needed to learn to say no to that girl. "Alright. I won’t tell him before then. I'm counting on your word."

 _A man is only as good as his word._ And that went for young women as well, as he had told her many times.

She thanked him profusely, hugging him and rubbing the side of her head against his leather lunic. He clapped her softly on the shoulder with a drawn out sigh. She pulled back from him, then cocked her head in the direction of her bag. He understood and walked back around the wagon to where he had come from.

He looked towards the diggers, following their shovels as they were raised and planted in the ground. Up and down. At some point, the washerwoman had walked back to the river behind him, but this time, he hadn't noticed.

After retrieving his washed clothes from the riverside, endeavouring not to interact with Arya all the while, he went to check on Deron, who was sleeping in the Warden's tent. He seemed to be doing better, but Rodney couldn't help but notice how unstable his breathing seemed, like a dog having a vivid dream of hunting a rabbit in the woods. There were only prayers now.

When he exited the tent, snow was rushing in from the west and hammering away at the camp. Jon was standing right in front of him. He was sullen, and Rodney thought he could see a hint of anger in his eyes. _Does he know?_ he thought.

"The funeral is soon," Jon curtly said.

"My lord, if this weather gets any worse we won't make it anywhere," Rodney said.

Jon nodded. "I fear that may be true. We'll have to make the trip to Queenscrown before nightfall. Otherwise, these graves won’t be enough."

Rodney nodded.

The men had all gathered around the graves. They were finished, ostensibly, but nothing impressive. An uneasy air surrounded the crowd, with only quiet mutterings and shifting in the fallen snow to break the stillness of the field. Rodney moved into the circle, Jon right behind him, and the men parted in waves as they passed through the crowd. All became still.

To the gathering's side came four Stark soldiers in two pairs, each carrying a visibly stretched cloth bag from the cargo wagons, holding the dead inside. They walked over to the graves and quietly lowered the bodies into them, then took solemn steps back to blend with the crowd as the gravediggers went over and began covering the bodies up.

Rodney considered saying something, and he had no doubt Jon was doing the same, but nobody raised their voice. Scores of eyes watched the dirt land on the white bags with a morbid peace that started to run through them. The wind was stronger now.

After a short silence, Jon stepped forward.

"We grieve for our men, but we cannot make halt!" he called out to the crowd. "We ride to Queenscrown, pack what remains, and quickly!"

The sullen crowd sprung into action, rushing to obey his orders. The gravediggers threw the last bits of dirt on the bodies and followed the others.

Jon walked over to stand next to Rodney. As they watched the men shuffle about the camp, he spoke. "This day takes a toll," he said. "I only pray for no more surprises." With those words, he walked away.

Rodney watched him leave through his heavy breaths, visible in the cold air, blown away in moments by the wind.


	3. Stormbound

The skies were grey around Queenscrown. A furious wind encircled the company as they strode into the village and climbed down from their horses. Arya crept out from her spot in the cargo wagon, where she had been mercifully spared from much of the weather the riders had faced on the way. Her eyes wandered to Jon, who was standing up in front. He stood facing a middle-aged wildling man. The two exchanged some words that she probably would not have heard, even were she standing inches from them.

A few moments passed, then Jon waved an arm at the group, gesturing for them to continue. He pointed to what appeared to be a stable, where the soldiers began to lead their horses, with Jon, Rodney, and Lady Ashwood heading instead towards a tavern at the center of the village. The other washerwomen, followed by a few singers who had joined the company, followed the nobles. Arya elected to do the same.

They were observed on all sides from the windows as they trudged through the streets. The snow was thinner here than where they had camped, but growing by the moment. The group said nothing as they walked, yet the streets were not silent.

From behind her, Arya heard a mess of shouting. She clutched her bag tightly. The sound was soon followed by the sound of wood against meat that she was all too familiar with. She swung around on her heel, and looked towards the holdfast, where the noises had come from.

A group of wildlings - construction workers, it seemed - were heading away from the holdfast. Behind them walked a man with a long, wooden cane, striking those that slowed down. The man barked something at the wildlings. One by one, they dispersed, heading in separate directions towards their lodgings.

“Are you coming?” asked one of the other women, who Arya had learned was called Carmine.

Arya looked back at the group. They had almost made it to the tavern while she had been distracted. She went with hurried steps towards them.

The others had just gone inside when she arrived, taking a look around. The tavern had the distinct marks of refurnishing. Older, rugged pieces of wood flowed into newer ones, lighter in color, creating a wave that went across the walls and the ceiling. It was otherwise unremarkable in most respects. Dirty, as one expected of a place frequented by wildlings, but quaint, carrying the sort of charm that only that kind of establishment really could.

As she walked along the tables, her eyes went to Jon, who was at the counter talking to the barkeep. An older man, but not by much, though his grey hair could deceive an untrained eye. Hers were anything but. The man didn’t look like a wildling, which surprised her.

“Are the women supposed to be in here?” the man grunted, side-eyeing Arya.

Jon turned to look at them. “They’re not hurting anyone, to my knowledge.”

The man gave Jon a skeptical look. “Boundless, I’m sure.”

Arya continued until she reached where the other commoners had made their home. Their colored blankets lay in a messy pile on the floor beside where they were sitting. She placed her bag next to the blankets and sank down to join them.

“How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?” The question had come from Tesha, another washerwoman. She was young, about Arya’s age, and looked perpetually like those she talked to were about to strike her.

“Well,” Arya began, “The wind was coming from down south and up, and we kept riding north to get here. So it will be here for a while longer, at least. A wind this strong could continue all the way to The Wall, but who knows how far south it started. It’s all so cold right now.”

The girl looked at her wide-eyed. “How do you know so much about wind?”

“I just… know things,” Arya said. Some of them, she was less keen to share.

A stray thought nagged at the back of her skull. She rose to her feet and walked over to the window. Outside, she saw a group of wildlings headed towards a building that looked quite a bit larger than the others. It didn’t quite rival the tavern, much less the holdfast, but it didn’t look like just another home. A faint light shone from the inside. One of the wildlings knocked on the door, and a few seconds later, it opened to reveal another figure. The two seemed to talk briefly, gesturing indiscernibly with their hands, then the group was let inside. They closed the door behind them.

Somewhere in the deep of Arya’s mind, a decision formed. She headed towards the tavern door.

“Where are you going?” asked Tesha, now swaddled in her blanket.

“I’ll be back,” Arya said.

Not an answer, but she found that the right statements often sufficed.

She walked along the floorboards, but stopped in her tracks when she spotted Jon and the others, still by the counter. There was no way she could leave without them noticing. Unless…

Walking back the direction she came, then turning right, she swung a corner to find a door leading out the side of the building. With one last look back, she exited into the icy cold.

A rough wind whipped at her face as she moved away from the tavern and into the street. The door slammed shut behind her with a frightening thud. The storm was far worse than before. As she fought her way through the snow, she could only just make out the light she had seen from the inside. She stared into it, her guiding star in the blizzard, and pressed on. Closer now.

She saw the wooden wall of the building only when she was close enough to kiss it, and hugged it close, sheltering herself . Putting her ear to the wall, she heard the faint sound of talking. She would have to get closer. Around the corner, it got louder bit by bit, until she reached the window looking out to what could charitably be called an alley between the buildings.

With nigh frozen fingers, she fumbled around the lower part of the window, then silently opened it the slightest bit. Then she listened.

“-and now Lord Stark can make himself useful,” came a younger male voice.

A woman answered. “You ought to keep your head on your neck, or it’ll float t’ the sky,” she said.

“Better than having it cut off,” came the man’s sour reply.

“Stark’s important, aye.” A short series of footsteps chronicled the woman’s journey across the floor. “But the Free Folk come first.”

“Agreed,” a gruff, older man said. “I’m just about sick. I say we shut up about him and his people.”

“Careful, or they’ll hear,” another man replied, with an audible smile on his lips.

The older man made a grunting noise.

Arya had all but forgotten the cold. They wanted Jon. But why? She returned to the window, realizing then that she had overheard the last few sentences spoken.

“Surely you’re needed here!” It was the gruff voice again.

“Queenscrown isn’t the only place that needs us,” the woman replied. “I must look north.”

There was a murmur among the crowd in the room. Arya hadn’t realized how many were there until then, but the chorus of voices made it clear that it was a significant number.

The younger man sputtered. “Without you how will we-”

“You won’t change my meaning,” the woman interjected. “I’m no god, and no queen. And our friend up north neither. All we need is each other.”

 _A friend up north?_ Were they going to be walking into a trap?

“The wind is ‘orrible,” the older man said. “I’ll shut the window tighter.”

The reality hit Arya like a horse’s hoof to the chest. Frantic, she rushed through the snow along the building’s side, tripping and falling front first onto the road. It was better trodden, but the cold ground was no better to fall on than the snow. She pushed herself up and climbed to the feet, cursing. From the lack of sound behind her, she assumed they had failed to notice her, though the wind would have made any reaction hard to hear.

Her eyes were caught by something moving through the blizzard. As it got closer to the building, she could make out several armor-clad figures. They looked more like Stark soldiers than wildlings. She ran diagonally through the wind to avoid detection and began a hard-fought march back to the tavern.

She found the same side door she had gone through and forced it open, practically jumping into the tavern’s warmth. The wind closed the door for her with a loud slam. She moved quickly through the hall and back into the tavern proper. The other washerwomen were still in the same spot, but Arya noticed they were holding mugs of ale. That’s when her eyes travelled to a soldier she didn’t recognize, who had sat down beside them. One of the Cerwyn men, it seemed. They were laughing merrily amongst themselves when she approached, and she sat down without a word.

“Ah, more company!” the soldier exclaimed.

Arya said nothing.

“Where did you go off to?” Carmine demanded. She said it like a stern mother, or perhaps an aunt.

“Nowhere,” she replied.

“People don’t go to nowhere,” Camine said.

Arya looked at her glumly, but didn’t reply.

“Oh, lay off the girl,” the soldier told Carmine. He rose slightly and turned his head. “Innkeep! Another ale!”

Arya was about to protest, but decided against it.

A few moments later, a mug appeared in her still frozen hands. She took a sip and swiftly regretted it.

“Everyone has a tale,” the soldier said. “Might I hear yours?”

She hadn’t noticed it when he was leaning back, but he could be quite imposing when he took an interest. She instinctively moved back a little, but it didn’t seem like he noticed.

“Good luck getting one,” Carmine said. “Her lips have been sown together, I’d wager.”

“Well, a name, then?” the soldier offered. He had an open palm extended towards her.

“Meri,” Arya muttered.

The soldier smiled. “A merry name indeed,” he declared, clearly very amused with himself.

Carmine and Tesha forced out little laughs. The kind of laugh Arya recognized as what women usually did around cruel lords to avoid being struck.

“Well,” he said, “Will you ladies be following us to Castle Black?”

“Where else would we go?” Arya asked.

The soldier shrugged. “Well, you could be headed to Mole’s Town. With all that place has grown, they’ll be needing girls like you, I bet.”

The implication was not lost on Arya, but nevertheless, she considered it for a moment. If she went there, Jon might not find out about her. If only Rodney hadn’t found out.

A bit away from where the group was sitting, the tavern door opened. Through it came a gust of cold wind, followed by four soldiers escorting two wildlings inside, holding an arm each. Arya recognized them as the figures she had seen outside, though it had been hard to make out details through the blizzard.

The wildlings were a man and a woman, both with stringy, unkempt hair. The woman was tall and gaunt, the man older, shorter, and well-built. They were released from the soldiers’ grip and stepped forward a few paces.

Jon entered the room from a hallway on its opposite side, studying the wildlings before him. He looked as though he had been expecting them.

Arya moved quietly closer to listen in. She placed herself behind a dark wood table and peeked between the chairs beneath. Next to her, a sound came.

“Lord Stark called them here.” It was the Cerwyn soldier’s voice.

She was startled for a moment but remained composed. He was standing upright next to the table, arms crossed, looking at Jon.

“Why?” she asked him.

He merely nodded forwards, gesturing her to pay attention.

“To what do we owe the honor?” the older wildling asked.

Arya’s eyes widened. There was no mistaking that voice. It was the gruff voiced man she had heard earlier when she was eavesdropping. And the woman-

“I’d like to know as well,” she said.

She was the one that had led the discussion. But did Jon know about the meeting? Surely, he couldn’t.

“My company was travelling here along the kingsroad,” he began. “In the wood a little ways south, a group of my men were attacked.”

“And I s’pose you think we did it,” the wildling woman said. Her voice was bitter and nigh as cold as the blizzard outside.

“The attackers were wildlings,” Jon said. “If you know a closer settlement, I ought to be informed.”

Arya furrowed her brow. It was a side of Jon she didn’t know, distant and calculated. The movement was subtle, she doubted the wildlings could tell, but the way he fidgeted with his fist made it clear to her that he wasn’t comfortable here.

The wildling woman scoffed. “Well, it wasn’t anyone from here. We’d have known. And so would your minions, they’d have that much less of us to beat.”

“ _My_ minions?” Jon asked, incredulous.

“You rule The North, and The Gift with it, aye?”

“I’ve not asked for beatings.”

“Well we haven’t asked for them neither!” the woman exclaimed.

Jon let out a heavy breath, then composed himself. “Do you know why wildling brigands would be attacking travellers?”

The older wildling looked at him as though he were a witch casting a terrible curse with gaze alone. “Some are bound to want food more than peace,” he muttered. “If you’re telling the truth.”

“Why would I lie to you?” Jon asked.

The wildling man chuckled. “Why would anyone lie, Lord Snow?”

Jon stared at him. He had the look of a man with half a mind to draw his sword then and there.

“Oh, it’s Stark now, isn’t it? My apologies,” the man said, in the least apologetic tone he could muster.

Arya’s eyes darted between the two men, feeling the air in the tavern going colder. Outside, the wind howled.

“You’re excused,” Jon said.

The Stark men escorted the two to the door, but when they attempted to open it, the wind endeavored to keep it shut. They looked to Jon, who gestured blankly towards the hallway to his left. Then he walked away.

Beside Arya, the soldier scoffed. “Guilty as sin.”

“You think so?” she asked.

“I trust wildlings about as far as I can throw them,” he muttered.

Arya furrowed her brow. “They didn’t seem like they were lying.”

“And you’d know?” he said with barely veiled scorn. “Believe me, girl. You can put a fish on land, but you can’t make it breathe.”

It took quite a bit more to earn her belief.

Sighing, she ducked away from her hiding place and headed back to where they had sat before. The soldier didn’t follow. When she returned, Carmine and Tesha were gone, along with their blankets and supplies. It was hardly darker than before, but she could tell that night had fallen. The barkeep was packing up the counter and all around her, people were moving to rooms where they could spend the night. She came to a decision.

On hurried steps, she followed where Jon had gone. She seemed to remember hearing footsteps on the stairwell, so soon after, her own accompanied her upstairs. The hallway was empty of people, but not of sounds. As Arya headed through, she listened to the quiet murmur coming from every door along her path. Every door but one.

She bent forwards in front of it, peeking through the keyhole. A figure stood facing the window inside. A familiar one. Arya dropped the glamor, leaving Meri in the hallway. She wouldn’t be any help now. Standing up straight, she steeled herself and folded her hands into fists. Whatever came next, she doubted she would enjoy it.

Arya’s fist hovered over the door. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and knocked. Three times. Quietly.

Inside, a rhythm of footsteps began, moving closer and closer before coming to a stop. She heard Jon clear his throat. Then the door opened.

“To what do I owe-” he cut himself off.

Her eyes met his. She wanted to smile at him, but her face was stuck in a tense, frightened expression.

“I-” he began, then stopped again. “How did you make it here?” He seemed more baffled than angry.

“From downstairs,” she said without thinking.

Jon rubbed his face and sighed in exasperation. “How long have you been following us?” he asked, in the quiet tone that he always put on to restrain himself.

She looked down. “Since Winterfell,” she muttered. “I’ve been a washerwoman.”

He couldn’t hold down a chuckle at that. It was a tired sound, like her father used to make when berating her. “A washerwoman,” he said, tasting the word.

“You wouldn’t let me come.”

“And for good reason!” Jon exclaimed, heading away from her into the room.

She followed him.

He sat down on the bed, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “Does Rodney know?”

“Since yesterday,” she replied.

He nodded.

“Please don’t be hard on him.”

Jon studied her with tired eyes. “I won’t,” he said. “I only wish you had come to me sooner.”

“How come?” she asked.

“I can’t well send you back now. The road is long and treacherous.”

“I’m coming to Castle Black,” she said.

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “And you will stay there. Protected.”

Arya spread her arms in protest. “I’ll be fine!”

“You will indeed. My men will make sure of it.”

It seemed useless to argue. Growing up at Winterfell had thoroughly convinced her of one thing: There wasn’t a Stark in the land that wasn’t stubborn as an aurochs.

Jon rose from the bed. “You’ll sleep here tonight,” he declared.

“And you?”

“My coat is as much bedding as I need.”

She was about to say something, but decided against it. Quietly, she slipped out of her boots and coat, then slipped under the covers of the bed. It seemed poorly made and felt bumpy against her body, but soft nonetheless. She lay on her side, watching Jon. He was sitting in a chair a few feet away, staring ahead, deep in thought. Occasionally, he cast a glance at her and she closed her eyes quickly, pretending to sleep.

Then she wasn’t pretending anymore.

It was dark when she awoke. She first looked to Jon, who was still in the chair, now fast asleep. His arms were crossed and his head lazily slumped downwards, leaving the impression that his slumber had been quite unplanned.

She swung her legs out of the bed and gently hopped down to the floor. The floor creaked beneath her as she walked, startling her. She carefully ducked down to where she had put her boots and fished out the knife hidden there. A tired hand placed it on her belt. When she continued, her steps were deliberate and slow. She cast a look back at Jon, still asleep, before heading out of the room.

Her feet carried her to the main hall and across the room to where she had sat with Tesha and Carmine earlier. She scouted the entire floor multiple times, but to no avail. The bag was nowhere to be found.

She scurried down the hallway, listening at each door. Most of the sounds were indistinguishable from each other, soldiers growling in their sleep nigh as much as they did on the battlefield. When she reached the back wall, she heard it. The tell-tale snore of Carmine that she’d gotten to know well on the journey. Arya gently opened the door, then shut it silently behind her.

There were two small beds in the room, and in each lay one of the girls. Bits of gentle light peeked into the room from the outside, letting her see the supplies and clothes they had put on the floor. Her bag was nowhere to be seen.

She stopped. Outside the room, footsteps were moving through the hallway. Bit by bit, they got closer. Arya stepped left of the doorway and hugged the wall tight. Seconds later, the door opened and she was passed by a figure she recognized as the soldier from earlier.

Without hesitation, she leapt forward and placed the knife right under his chin, facing inwards.

“Do you like your throat?” she asked.

He stiffened completely. “Do- what?”

“Do you like your throat?”

“-Yes,” he quickly said.

“Then you had best find your sleeping quarters.”

He swallowed. “I will. I will.”

The soldier breathed out a sigh of relief as she pulled away the knife. He began moving back towards the door, watched from the darkness by Arya.

“I’ve done worse things to better people,” she told him.

He ran the rest of the way.

Arya leaned against the wall. No bag, no Meri, just her. Just her. She clutched her knife tightly and breathed slowly in and out.


End file.
